Brilliant Disguise
by I Need A Creative Penname
Summary: Short Story. What if Calvert had been on the Titanic? What if he knew who Rose "Dawson" really was? And what if he came back into her life years later? Read and Review!


_**Brilliant Disguise**_

_March, 1927_

I'd seen her before of course, first that night on the ship when she and that young blonde man had been on deck staring out at the dark horizon. And again, this time with another man, with dark hair and cold eyes. I never forgot her. It's hard to forget someone who invades your very soul with her mere presence and whose image you keep locked in your mind for a rainy night. And oh how many lonely and rainy nights there had been lately, as I sat at home with my fresh cup of coffee in front of a warm fire, just thinking. Often I thought of her, of how her eyes danced with the blonde haired boy and then were sullen when she was around the man with the dark hair. It had been a long time now, nearly fifteen years.

I came here often, when I had nothing better to attend to. Most of my family was still back in Cedar Rapids, but there was something about the West Coast that drew me here and kept me in California. For months at a time I would come down and rent out a little apartment, trying to clear my mind, trying to write my great American novel that did not seem to be happening. Luckily, I had my doctorate to fall back on whenever I ran out of spending money, or whenever my sanity returned, whichever came first. And my father was always ready with a job at his office when I came crawling back to Cedar Rapids.

This particular café was a favorite of mine. No where else in America could you get fish and chips made quite this way. And the view from the outside deck was outstanding. To the east, majestic purple mountains could just be seen at the horizon, and to the west lay the Pacific and all her glory. There was something about being near the largest body of water in the world that gave me a little jolt of excitement, even if being in that icy water made me shudder with painful memories.

"Ahh, there you are Mr. Calvert. I figured I'd see you down here today."

I glanced up to see Joseph Wade staring down own at me with his big toothy grin and thinning grey hair. He owned the place, and had run it single-handedly for over thirty years now. Sometimes, even if he was technically working, he would stop by your table and talk to you for a while. His wife had died several years ago, and I think seeing regulars in here made him feel less lonely.

"Hey there Joe," I said grinning, pointing also the chair next to me in an indication that he should take a seat. "How's it goin' this fine afternoon?"

Joseph sat down in the seat next to me and leaned back in his hair, tipping back on the two back legs. "Pretty damn good, the nice weather is driving a lot of people out and about, so we've been pretty steady."

I nodded in agreement, having noticed the unusual number of people in the café. The weather had been unseasonable warm for March, causing the beaches to become crowded with people earlier then usual. Joe's café was conveniently located just a short walk from most beach locations, and was quiet noticeable from up and down the coast with its big red roof and inviting deck. Not only that, but the food kept people coming back again and again.

"Finish your book yet Calvert?" Joe asked me a moment later, a cheeky smile on his face.

I grinned back. "Not even close," I answered, taking a sip from my glass of water. "But believe me, the moment I do, you'll be the first to know." Joe had always believed in my aspirations to be an author and was constantly asking me how the quest was going.

It was quiet again, Joe was watching something below us on the sand, my mind wondering elsewhere. I hadn't seen her yet today, but I knew Saturday afternoon's were her usual. I wasn't exactly stalking her, by any means. It was just the fact that I was usually in here Saturday afternoons and I usually saw her in here.

I'd talked to her a few times; she knew my name and generally what I was doing in California. But she didn't know the whole story, didn't know how I had been following her from place to place since 1912. Didn't know how I had been _there_ with her. Didn't know that I knew who she really was. In my defense, we had ended up at the same place mostly by accident. She had been in New York until the war, as was I. Then we were both sent to Europe on the same ship, and again assigned to the same area in France for a year. I knew she was there, but I don't think she ever knew I even existed until I wondered into her little café two years ago. That had been quite coincidental. As far as I had known, she was still in Los Angles working in movies. What she was doing in Monterey was beyond my imagination.

"Is she working today?" I finally asked, breaking the silence that had lasted for several minutes. Joe knew who I was talking about; I always asked.

He nodded slowly. "Yes, she's here."

"Good day or bad day?" I asked.

Shrugging, Joe started to stand up, screeching his chair against the wooden floor. "Good day, I think. She's smiling…hasn't gotten that distant look in her eye, that I've seen." He pushed his chair back in and then smiled tiredly at me. "I'll send her by, if you like."

"All right, but don't tell her I asked. Just tell her you need her to handle some people out here or something."

"Sure thing," he promised, and then left.

I watched him go, anxiously waiting for him to go through that kitchen door. I had made up my mind as I got dressed this morning that today would be the day I asked her to dinner. I had been throwing the idea around again and again for the past couple of weeks, trying to get the nerve up to say something. More than a few times I had gone into the café with the intent of doing so, and every single time before I had failed. I had made a promise to myself that today I would go through with it, no matter how asinine I sounded when I did. I wanted to get to know her outside of the café, wanted to learn just who she was, her entire life story. And I had some questions of a somewhat secret nature that I knew only she could answer.

I heard her laugher before I saw her form. That crisp, loving sound of her voice floated to my ears and in an instant my head shot in the direction it was coming from. She was standing about twenty feet away, delivering food to another group of people, among whom was a young boy who was making her giggle. I heard her laughingly tell them to enjoy their food and then she looked up, subsequently catching me staring. Another bright grin broke out on her face as she recognized me.

Time had changed little. And though she had aged some, she still radiated a glow that drew anyone around to her presence. Her hair was cut shorter to resemble the fashion of the time, yet it still was long enough to freely frame her face with soft tendrils. Her eyes, though constantly tired looking, were still as beautiful as I remembered them. Even in a large dress and frumpy apron, she looked just as striking to me as the night I had first seen her in person. I had known about her for some time before at fateful April, as I'm sure half of America did, because of exactly who she was. However, I was pretty sure I was one of, if not the only person, who knew now just who this woman indeed was.

She could not fool me; I knew she was the "dead" DeWitt Bukator girl. She looked the exact same, walked the same, even spoke with the same pattern of speech, not to mention walked around like the living dead half the time because of what she had experienced. I was surprised that no one else had noticed. Perhaps many had and were just keeping it quiet, like I had. Still, too fake your own death? It seemed crazy to me, a desperate resort that surely must have been a last minute decision.

"James, you really must stop coming in here so often," she chastised with a smile on her face as she neared. "What will people think?"

"Ah, and miss seeing you? Hmm…I should think you would be accustomed to it by now anyway, Miss Dawson. Surely you have more then enough men hanging around, waiting for the pleasure of your company."

She blushed a shade of red that almost matched her hair and smiled sheepishly. "Should I even bother?" she asked, pulling a menu out from her apron pocket.

Shaking my head, I gestured for her to sit across from me. "Nah. But sit down a minute, get off your feet. Ole' Joe wont mind."

Eyeing my curiously, she seemed to actually consider my offer before rejecting me. "I can't, I have a lot of other customers to get too. Maybe some other time." A shadow passed her face, a look of sorrow, or possibly regret.

"Some other time," I echoed

For a moment, she seemed lost, as if my offer had stirred something up inside of her. I'd seen this look before; she had it often when I came in here. The emotions being played out on her face would range from pain to thankfulness, to just plain sick. I had often wondered if maybe it had to do with 1912, and what she had gone through. I knew who she was, I just didn't know the full story.

I was curious as hell to find out just had had happened that cold April night. Society girls, especially prominent ones like the DeWitt Bukator girl, just didn't stop being society girls in a night. Something drastic must have happened. Did no one see her in the water? Or notice her in a lifeboat? The newspapers had all reported that Miss DeWitt Bukator had returned to her room and was not seen again by her fiancé or mother. But that didn't make sense. She couldn't have just disappeared. And people in New York must have known, they must have recognized her. There had to be clues to who in fact she was. Her clothes, her mannerism, her pattern of speech, they must have reflected that of a higher upbringing and when she stepped off the Carpathia, _someone_ must have known.

And another thing, what was this Dawson business? Both she and Joe had told me she was not married, but if she was indeed who I thought she was, then where had the different last name come from? She wore no ring, displayed no indication that she was attached. But how did she change her name without reveling who she really was? Surely if she had shown up to the courthouse and demanded to change her name to Dawson from DeWitt Bukator, they would have pulled up a death certificate. The whole process made my head hurt, and I couldn't help but conclude that either Miss Dawson was living under some alias illegally or had pulled some other illegal act to get her name changed. Either way, it was clear she was trying to run away from her past, away from everything that was DeWitt Bukator.

But _why?_ What could have possibly happened that made her fake her own death and escape out here to the west coast? Whatever became of the blonde haired man, or her million dollar engagement ring Hockley testified had been lost, or her things from the TitanicWhere were they? She was an enigma that I was determined to piece together.

A sigh brought me back to the present and I jerked my head to look in her direction. She was looking at me, sadness pouring out of her eyes like tears. But she smiled in an attempt to put on a good show.

"Are you going to order something or shall I just leave you alone?" she asked softly.

This was it, it would be my last chance of the afternoon. I needed to talk to her or else I wouldn't be able to sleep tonight. I wanted to know if there could ever be anything between us. And I needed to confirm for my own sanity that she _was _the DeWitt Bukator girl and that I wasn't just imagining things. I could figure out later what had happened. But for now, I just needed a little peace of mind.

"Rose, please sit down, I want to show you something."

She cocked her head to one side and gave me a confused look. "You what?" she asked.

"Just, sit…"

She glanced around quickly and then curtly sat down on the edge of the chair opposite of me. Looking extremely uncomfortable, she leaned forward a bit and stared at me for a minute.

"You're going to get me fired James," she hinted, her voice even and monotone.

I grinned slyly. "Hardly my dear. I wanted to show you what I found in my apartment. It's in really good condition, considering it was up in a cupboard." It was a lie, but what else could I say? Quickly, I leaned over and retrieved an old tattered newspaper I saved from 1912. Its headlines screamed Titanic, and countless stories flooded its pages. And on the very bottom of the front page was a little account on the "dead" Rose DeWitt Bukator. It was an older picture, perhaps when she was fourteen or fifteen. But never the less, it was she. I wanted to see her reaction when I brought it to her attention.

If it affected her, she gave no indication. At first. She simply reached across the table and gingerly pulled the newspaper closer towards her. Delicately, she ran her fingers over the print, tracing the letters one by one. For several minutes she said nothing, simply stared down at the front page, not bothering to look at the rest of the paper.

"It's…interesting," she whispered, still not looking at me. Then, quickly she asked, "Why are you showing it to me?"

"You seemed like the person who might like history," I whispered, not wanting to push her emotions past the neutral mood they were now.

Only now did she look up, and I saw her eyes covered in a watery gaze. "Well I don't," she answered curtly, pushing the paper back to me. I noticed her hands were shaking as she stood, pushing her chair back with a noisy screech. "I need to go," she whispered, her voice breaking as she tried to hold back emotions.

"Wait," I pleaded reaching out, trying to grab hold of her hand. She flinched when my skin touched hers. "I didn't mean to trouble you."

Through her tears, she tried to smile at me. "You couldn't have known." And then, without my indication, she sat back down abruptly. "It just gets me so upset. I mean, all those people. They were going to bring more boats and they didn't. They didn't do it. The arrogant pricks wanted more room on their God damn ship!" Her voice had risen to a level that people were starting to turn from their own lunches to stare. "It was so cold!" she asserted weakly, and then fell quiet, eyes brimming over in tears.

I stared at her for a moment. Any shadow of a doubt left in my mind was now gone. I _knew_ she had to be the DeWitt Bukator girl. Anyone with half a brain could see she was visibly shaken, disturbed even. A maniacal look shadowed behind her tears; she was still bitter about the whole subject. Her hurt was clear as her gaze fell to the table. But her true identity didn't answer my other questions.

I gave her a few moments, allowing her to continue to digest the information. Finally, I whispered her name.

I'll never forget the look her eyes gave me that next instant. All at once, all the pain, disgust, and anger I had felt those days after the sinking came rushing back to me. What in the hell was I doing? This poor girl; God knows what sort of images and sounds I had stirred up in my stupid selfish quest. Quietly, I stood up and went to her side, tenderly putting my arms around her. It was enough to make her being sobbing, and I held her tighter as she began to cry into my shirt sleeve. I felt horrible; what on Earth was wrong with me? I should be taken out back and shot, or locked away forever. She didn't deserve this.

I wanted to tell her so badly. I wanted to scream that I had been there too! I knew of the grandeur of that precious ship, and of how proud it made you feel just to be a part of it. And I could still hear the steward delivering the fateful news. But I also remember too clearly the icy cold, the lapping water, my mother's wailing for my brother as he was left behind because he was too old. I only survived because I was tiny for eighteen, not grown into my own skin yet, and still looked three years younger. Thank goodness my father had returned earlier, else he would not be back in Iowa now. I knew all to well the horrors of that bitter April night.

But I couldn't do it. How does one begin to share something like that? And what did I expect? I knew she would not share her own story. And somehow, I was less interested than I had been a few minutes ago.

I let her cry for a few more minutes before she began to calm down some. When I glanced at her, I could see her eyelids falling. She looked so fragile, so tiny, and so much older than before. And tired. There was a general worn-out ness about her that seemed to radiate from her soul.

"C'mon," I said, hooking her arm around my shoulder and hoisting her to her feet. "Let's get you in the back."

"Thank you," she whispered shakily, weakly allowing me to lead her toward kitchen. On the way we passed Joseph, and I gave him a little nod toward Rose as an indication that she was not doing very well. He acknowledged me with a similar gesture, and quickly said goodbye to some customers he was talking to. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him start to follow us.

No sooner then I had Rose settled in on a couch Joe kept in the back kitchen for breaks, the man burst in with a loud commotion.

"What on Earth did you do to my best waitress Calvert!" he demanded, rushing over to Rose.

"It was just a little misunderstanding," she said more calmly than she looked. "James didn't do anything. I'm fine, really. I just need a little rest."

Joseph looked suspiciously from the mess on his couch to me and then back to Rose again. She managed to put a smile on for her boss, which seemed to soften him a bit. He put his arms around her and gave her a little hug before leaving, claiming he wanted to apologize to his customers for leaving them so abruptly. But he couldn't fool me; I saw the pain in his eyes as he passed. No doubt he was remembering his own wife in such states.

"I should go home," I announced after a tense moment.

"Oh, James, you don't have to...really. I will be all right in a minute or two." Rose tried to give me the same fake smile she used on Joseph, but I just grinned right back.

"Naw, I promised my folks I'd give them a call. I should do that before it gets to late."

"It's just after noon James," Rose pointed out, starting to really grin a little.

I glanced up at the clock hanging on the wall. "Oh, so it is. Hmm, well…still. My mother likes to take naps in the afternoon." I started backing up, still looking at Rose as I did so. "Sorry again," I whispered. "Take care Rose." And with that I turned and left, my shoes kicking loudly against the tile floor. I could _feel_ her gaze upon my body as I walked away tensely. And once I was out of the kitchen, I took off in a mad dash out, leaving quickly without so much as a goodbye glance at Joe.

The whole walk home my mind went crazy in an attempt to really process what I had done back there. I was a completely stupid, thoughtless man. What had I been trying to prove by showing her that newspaper? That I _knew_ she was faking? She had looked so hurt, so lost…and lonely. At that moment, I wanted to put my arms around her and hold her safely for the rest of her life.

The walk back to my apartment never felt so long as it did that afternoon.

And I'd never felt so guilty in my entire life.

I was also sure I had screwed it up completely with Rose. But three weeks later, when I had actually mustered up the courage to return, it was _she_ who asked _me_ out instead of the other way around. Or rather, I think her exact words were: "James, I think we should have dinner. So if you want to take me out, that would be alright."

I think Ole' Joe might have had something to do with that one.

Two years later we were married in a simple ceremony in Iowa, where we decided to settle down and raise a family. I started working full time at my father's clinic, gave up trying to write the great American novel, and Rose tried her best to make our house a home. She never did get the knack for cooking very well, but God knows she could set a table and knew the proper way to act at said table. She brought life to my dull existence, and my family adored her. She was what our little world had been missing since my brother died.

Two years after we were married she gave birth to our first son Adam and three years after that another boy we named Matthew. They became our life, and Rose became the best mother a boy could have. It was as if she were born into the role. Despite it all, however, I knew she's always wanted a little girl and luckily when we tried for another baby three years after Matthew, we were blessed with our Gracie. She came in to this world kicking and screaming for attention, and didn't stop till my dying day. I always said she had too much of her mother in her.

Rose's shadowed past was never an issue, and we never spoke of it. There was an unwritten understanding between us that I wasn't to ask, and in return she would try her best to not let it affect her. It did though, and once in a while things would indeed get to her. Knowing her secrets helped me understand her however, and I would simply and quietly let her storms roll on by like waves.

Nor did I ever tell her that I had been on the Titanic. I told my family never to mention it in front of her, and, since they rarely spoke of it besides, it became a dark family secret. As far as Rose knew, my brother died because of influenza. It was all any of us needed to know or pretend.

Once, when we were getting to be very old and were vacationing on the Oregon coast, I jokingly asked her if there were any secrets that she wanted to tell me. Her soft smile faded as she turned to look at me, and she simply gazed for a long time.

"No, I can't," she finally whispered.

That night I heard her call for someone named Jack in her sleep. In the darkness I stared at her as her face grimaced in pain and she thrashed softly about, as if in a pool, drowning and starting to give up on life.

I never asked who Jack was.

Somehow I both didn't need and didn't want to know.

**The End**

_Review! I would love you know what you think :)_


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